


It's Probably Me

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, First Times, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair teaches Jim something about taking him for granted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Probably Me

## It's Probably Me

by Silk

Author's website:  <http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel/>

All things Sentinel belong to Pet Fly and Paramount. This work is not for profit.

Thanks to Tinnean for getting me through an interesting week that included the death of my laptop. 

This story is in first person and from Blair's POV.

* * *

It's Probably Me 

by Silk 

I'm a trouble magnet. When something goes wrong, and around me it invariably does, everyone looks in my direction. But come on, _everything_ bad can't be my fault. I mean, statistically, that's just...well, impossible. The laws of probability dictate that it _must_ be someone else's turn once in a while. 

But I have to admit, if someone is being blown up, stabbed, shot, kidnapped, or felled by vending machine, there's a good chance that I'm involved. But that doesn't make me a bad person. 

I'm just another victim. 

And then there's the thing about cops. I'm constantly being reminded that I am _not_ a cop. Okay. I get that. I don't need it repeated every time I go out with Jim on a case. What am I, suffering from short-term memory loss? And yet...they expect me to _act_ like a cop and they're surprised when I don't. What's with the double standard? 

I'm already in an unenviable position. I'm short. I've got long hair. I wear earrings. And...um...well, I'm not exactly straight either. 

And did I mention that I'm in love with my very _male_ partner? 

Jim doesn't know, of course. I'm not sure what that says about his heightened senses if he can't tell that I'm hopelessly aroused by the sight of him wrapping a towel around his middle when he steps out of the bathroom. Granted, I've been the soul of restraint, but you would think that he would notice that his _male_ roommate practically bolts into the kitchen when he sees all that glistening wet skin. 

Then again, this is _Jim_ that I'm talking about. The poster boy for repression and other defense mechanisms. Even if he felt the same way I do, he'd never let me know it. Hell, he'd never let _himself_ know it. If insight is power, Jim is doomed. 

Which doesn't bode too well for me. 

* * *

"You weren't watching where you were going, were you?" Jim snapped, his hand smacking the back of my head. We were in the ER, which, for obvious reasons, is _not_ one of my favorite places. 

"Ow! Hey, watch it, man, that hurt!" 

"I can't believe you walked in front of a car and managed to escape with just a broken wrist," Jim groused. 

"My right wrist, man. The one I use to write with. The one I use to--um, never mind," I said, allowing my voice to fade to nothing. 

"So what were you doing anyway? Ogling some girl?" 

"Um...no. Just a little preoccupied, I guess." 

"About what?" Jim asked absently, shifting the truck into reverse to exit the hospital parking lot. 

"Snarflegarble," I mumbled, deliberately not saying anything remotely intelligible that Jim could conceivably decipher. 

"Hmm..." Jim said thoughtfully. 

* * *

Without a word, Jim deposited my backpack on the floor and strode into the kitchen. I stood there, stupified, unable to believe how cold Jim was acting. I was used to being taken for granted. But suddenly Jim was treating me like I was invisible. 

"Jim?" 

Jim opened the refrigerator door and upended a carton of milk, draining it halfway before he answered. "Yeah?" 

"Don't you care what happens to me anymore?" I couldn't keep the plaintive note out of my voice. I was too upset. 

"You broke your wrist, Sandburg, not your leg. I think you can make it into the living room under your own power, don't you?" 

"Jim!" 

"Don't get all girly on me, Sandburg." With that, Jim turned his back on me and headed for the stairs. 

I was speechless. What the hell just happened here? I couldn't claim to know what Jim was thinking half the time, but something was definitely wrong. 

I sat down on the couch to wait. 

A half hour later, I was still waiting. 

* * *

To say I was furious would be a gross understatement. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was in pain. My wrist throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch. The doctor at the hospital had prescribed something, but Jim was being such a shit, he didn't even offer to get the prescription filled. 

I didn't understand why he was reacting this way. But at this point, I didn't really care anymore. I wasn't about to lie on the couch like some maiden having the vapors. There was no way he was going to be able to fucking ignore me. 

"Hey, Jim!" I shouted upstairs. He was hiding from me. It wasn't even dark out. There was no possible way he could be sleeping this early. 

No answer. 

For some reason, the growing silence set me off. "Jim! I know you hear me, you prick! Stop pretending you don't!" 

He appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed only in a white muscle shirt and white boxers. His bare feet scuffed the hardwood floor. Asshole. He was dragging his feet like a sullen little boy. 

"What do you want, Sandburg?" 

"Get your ass down here, Ellison! And stop calling me Sandburg! I can feel you trying to distance yourself from here." 

I swear, I was so hot, if I could have pulled him off the landing from where I stood, I would have. 

He stomped down the stairs, each and every footfall a thud that reverberated in my chest. When we were face-to-face, Jim stopped abruptly. "You stupid little fuck," he muttered. "Why do you care?" 

"Why _don't_ you?" I countered angrily. 

"What do you want from me?" he sneered. 

"You want a fucking list, man?" 

"Food," I continued, punctuating the word with a shove. "Sleep." Push. "Major drugs." Push. "And not necessarily in that order." 

"Anything else?" Jim drawled. 

"Yeah, a little sympathy would be nice," I answered back. 

"Fine," Jim snapped. "How are you feeling, _Blair_?" 

"Like shit, Jim, but thanks for asking," I said sarcastically. 

"No problem." 

"I hate you." I think the vehemence in my voice surprised both of us. On his way into the kitchen again, Jim turned sharply and stared at me impassively. God forbid he should give _anything_ away. 

"You don't mean that," Jim said tersely, as if the words were torn out of his throat. 

"Right now I do." 

"You're just pissed because you're hungry and tired--" 

"And in pain. Jim, I never ask you for a fucking thing. But you completely forgot to pick up the painkillers the doctor ordered." 

"Can't you do that?" 

"I can't even _feed_ myself, Jim. What makes you think I can _drive_?" 

Jim heaved a long-suffering sigh. "O-kay, I'm probably being a jerk--" 

" _Probably_? Jim, I almost died today. I don't know about you, but that sort of thing kinda freaks me out." 

"Me, too," Jim said, so softly I nearly missed it. 

"You, too? Jim, you act like I've got the plague, then you light into me like getting run over was _my_ idea." 

"You could have fucking died," Jim whispered, his lips barely moving. 

"What? I can't hear you." 

"You could have fucking died," he repeated, sounding more and more like he was in danger of slipping into a zone. 

"Huh?" 

"I said, you could have fucking died!" he shouted, the intensity of his voice hitting me like an unseen force. 

"I know!" I shouted back, getting right in his face. 

His eyes came alive with naked fear. I don't think he even realized how much he revealed in that moment. His fingers clutched at my hair as he swept it away from the side of my face. I found the gesture so oddly tender that I couldn't move. 

"I could have lost you, Blair," he murmured. "I could have..." His voice faded off as he trailed one hand down my arm to my injured wrist. "Oh, God." 

"I'm here, Jim," I reassured him. "I'm okay." 

"You're hurt," he said, sounding like something had broken inside him. 

I couldn't hold onto my anger. It was in my nature to protect Jim. Whether that was part of the Sentinel-Guide bond or not, I couldn't be sure. But I knew one thing: I loved the _man_ behind the Sentinel. 

Even when he overreacted. 

His other hand firmly anchored in my hair, Jim kissed me hard. The boundaries of who we were shifted and blurred as we became one entity. "I'm so sorry, Chief," he whispered against my mouth. 

"Shit, Jim, you can apologize any time you want as long as you keep kissing me like that," I whispered back. 

"You liked it?" he asked hesitantly. 

"I _loved_ it," I said enthusiastically. 

"I was afraid you wouldn't," Jim mumbled under his breath. "That's why I never told you." 

"Told me what, Jim?" I prompted softly. 

"How much you mean to me," he finished forlornly. 

"Jim," I began, trying my damnedest to pull him even closer. "Don't you know how much I love _you_?" 

"But Chief, I'm hopelessly fucked-up." 

"Can't help it, Jim. I love you anyway." 

"But--" 

"Stop trying to talk me out of it, dammit. I love you," I growled. 

"That way?" 

"Which way is that, Jim? Just so we understand each other, this relationship should now include fucking." 

To emphasize my point, I ground my suddenly-interested dick against his groin. He responded by sliding his hands inside the back of my jeans to cup my ass. 

"Mmm, I never expected that," I sighed contentedly. 

"Yeah, well, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition either," he quipped, startling me into a burst of laughter. 

"What? I watch TV." 

"Jim!" I chortled. "I _love_ a man who can quote Monty Python. But I had no idea you knew the TV was for anything but Jags games." 

"Shut up and kiss me back, Chief," Jim said gruffly, his hands eagerly caressing my bare skin. 

End 

* * *

End It's Probably Me by Silk: silkn1@att.net

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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